Just a Damned Old Used Guitar

In the corner of a pawn shop, blanketed in dust stood a damned old used guitar; for a twenty, was a must. Walking out the door with it slung across my back I saw a young man with a sign, "Help my name is Jack" I didn't know his troubles, never really gave it thought., just dropped a single in his hat, less that the hat held naught. I started to move on, and then I heard Jack say, "Thanks man, that's a fine guitar". " Could I hear you play"? I hated to admit it but I'd never plucked a string; bought it on an impulse, just attracted to the thing. How 'bout you, I asked him and he reached for it with tears. He used to with his dad, but he hadn't played in years. His dad was a musician and he played from town to town. His mom had split his senior year 'cause Dad was never 'round. He'd begged Dad to come home that spring to see him cross the stage. On the way dad wrecked and died and Jack was filled with rage. They brought him Dad's belongings from the totalled out old car; a suitcase full of clothes and this damned old used guitar. Jack strummed a few rough chords, then tuned it up a bit. He'd sold it for a sawbuck, then just came out here to sit. Its been three years since then, come the twenty-fifth of May. He rolled his sleeves, closed his eyes and he began to play. His fingers typed in music, a letter to his dad. Now lost in the nostalgia, he didn't seem so sad. A crowd began to gather and his hat filled to the brim, And that damned old used guitar, well I left it there with him.